Tragic! Blimp! Accident!
by DrawMeASheep
Summary: COMPLETEly insane. It's a crack!fic! in which La Grenouille, Jeanne and Tony fly away in a blimp, Gibbs and Abby fall into the clutches of corporate coffee, the Director is batty for frogs and it's up to Drunk! Ziva! to save the day! McGee is there too.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own NCIS, but only if we're counting the third season DVDs, which we totally should.

Spoilers: Everything through the end of the fourth season, straight up to the final phoof.

Summary: This picks up where the season finale left us, for all intents and purposes. In terms of plot? The title and the fact that I'm a Tiva shipper should really tell you where it's all going. It's crack!fic! so don't get hung up on the OOCness. It's just some post-season venting. McGee is the only sane one left, but, among other things, I'm sure we can all agree that Ziva isn't normally a drunken six-year old. My justification is if you're going to do it up crazy, you owe it to yourself to do it up _crazy_. The sheer ridiculousness of the blimp really provided the inspiration for the insanity.

Unlike everything else I write in multi-chapter form, this fic is complete and will be posted one chapter per day for seven days, assuming I remember to post each day.

* * *

McGee trudged up the hall toward his apartment, exhausted from his long night of shady activities. Hacking with Gibbs hovering in his general vicinity had been enough to shake his nerves for the next month at least. He was looking forward to sleeping into the afternoon and working on the ending of _Rock Hollow_ over the rest of the weekend.

He wasn't even sure he'd have time to hit the Burberry store for a stylish new undershirt to wear to his polygraph. He didn't quite understand the appeal of the plaid, but it would be worth the investment, just in case he needed a jumping off point for a conversation with an attractive young polyographer. She would say, 'Nice undershirt. Is that Burberry?' and he would reply, 'Yes. Would you like to go to dinner with a guy who wears high-end undergarments?' and she, naturally, would shake her head and claim to be married, engaged, or deeply engrossed in plans for washing her hair.

He arrived at his own door with a grateful sigh. Things would be back to normal after a good few hours of…figuring out why his door was unbolted. Instantly on alert, he drew his weapon and stepped carefully into the apartment. Treading carefully, he cleared the kitchen and living room, working his way toward some odd noises emanating from the bedroom.

A suspicious trail of red led from the sofa to the closed door. He shuddered at the thought of what he could possibly find in his bedroom – a crazed fan who'd acted out a crime scene in his hero's residence? A homeless person who'd somehow gotten in and vomited on the carpet before crawling off to the bedroom to die? McGee glanced over the couch to confirm the odor and saw that someone had indeed befouled his living room rug.

He took a deep breath and pushed the bedroom door open, aiming his gun and shouting, "I'm a federal agent! Whatever sick…" He stopped abruptly as he saw a gun was pointed back at him.

"Why the hell are you in my apartment, McGee?"

He kept his weapon leveled, not sure that this was a safer turn of events than finding a maniac sleeping in his bed. "Ziva?"

"Not so loud!" she moaned, tucking her own gun under the pillow. She reached for a bottle lying on its side in a red pool beside the bed and took a long swallow.

McGee grimaced as he realized it was the Chianti he'd been saving for a special occasion. "What are you doing in my apartment?"

She sat up, looking at him curiously. "Your apartment? Well, that would explain why my keys weren't working. And the cheap red wine."

"Hey, that's…"

"Overpriced stale grape juice? Tell me about it." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, placing her bare feet squarely in the damp red stain. "Yeah, just send me the bill for the carpet cleaners."

He was unable to formulate an appropriate response as she sauntered past him, offering him a swig from the bottle she was toting as she did so. He followed her to the kitchen, where she turned on the tap in the sink and leaned her head under it. He scratched his head uncomfortably. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Timmy, you know the best cure for a hangover?" She whipped her hair around, smacking him in the face with heavy wet tendrils.

"Um, no."

She held up the half-empty wine bottle. "Get drunk again!" After a few healthy swallows to finish it off, she dropped the bottle on the floor and threw her arm around his shoulders. "Unless you're hiding something good in your cabinets, let's hit some bars!"

"It's nine in the morning, Ziva," he said, quietly extricating himself from her grip, lest her Moussad training kick in and cause her to snap his neck for opposing her suggestion.

"Oh. Well, liquor store, then. You can drive." She grabbed the set of keys on the counter and tossed them in his general direction. "My car is…parked somewhere. It'll turn up, I'm sure. Now what did I do with my gun?"

* * *

Jenny Shepard stared at the footage playing on her large flat screen TV with narrowed eyes, hatred evident in her icy glare. As the scene progressed, she muttered, "Oh, you think you're clever, Mr. The Frog, but I will get you. You can't hide behind costumes that don't fool anyone. It's only a matter of time before you make the wrong move or your snotty pig girl gets sick of you and turns you in. Enjoy your singing and dancing while you still can."

She continued to mutter under her breath as Cynthia delivered a fresh cup of coffee. The intensity with which she watched the screen prevented her from thanking her assistant. She increased the volume, writing rapidly as she wrote down some of the details of the plot unfolding on the video.

For her part, Cynthia closed the door quietly behind herself and returned to her desk. After completing some interagency memoranda, her fingers automatically dialed a number on the phone. After one ring, the line connected. "Good morning, FBI Director Simpson's office…"

"Hey, Melinda, it's Cynthia."

"Oh, hey. How are things over at NCIS?"

"Shepard's mumbling to herself and watching _The Great Muppet Caper_ again."

"She's still on that crazy frog obsession?"

"Yeah. I'm not going to worry unless she stops signing my timesheet. So how was your date last night?"

* * *

Gibbs followed two bobbing pigtails down the sidewalk, increasing his pace to catch Abby as she arrived at the door of DC Blend. "You working today, Abs?"

"Gibbs!" She gave him a rib-crushing hug before entering the shop. "More like all night. The Director had me in analyzing dead people's fingerprints on bottles of Scotch. What are you doing here?"

He gestured to the long line of customers they had just joined. "I could tell you, but I'd have to kill everyone in here that overheard me."

She gave him a happy grin. "Aw, it's sweet that you changed the way people usually say that. I can wait til we get back to the elevator, I suppose."

"It's a date. We can go Dutch – you can tell me what you were up to for Jen."

"Consider it done, oh yet-to-be-caffeinated one!"

He bowed at the waist. "Now all we need is for this line to move faster."

* * *

Tony smiled uncomfortably as the sleek black limousine sped through the streets with Jeanne and her proud papa chatting merrily on the rear bench seat. He'd tried to unobtrusively reach into his pocket to send a text message to Jenny several times, but each time he had been thwarted by a poorly timed question from one Benoit or the other. Why did an arms dealer even have an opinion on Bertolucci?

Apart from films, the conversation vacillated between Jeanne's wistful recitation of the selling points of the hideous home she was so dead set on buying and her father's none-too-subtle hints about the potential for marriage and grandchildren. Whenever her father spoke, Jeanne would look pleadingly at Tony, as if begging him to propose right then and there. His only rational thought was, _Not in this lifetime, lady_.

He tried not to absorb the words and smile as La Grenouille asked his daughter questions. "This house, does it have a yard where the children can play?"

"Oh, papa, Tony and I haven't even discussed how many children we want! I suppose we'll have to move after the second baby, but the little house has a wonderful, sunny room that we could convert into a nursery for the first one."

"But you will not have children until you are married, of course."

"I hope not, Papa, but surprises do happen!" She gave Tony a wink and a thin-lipped grin.

He felt like he was on the verge of having to claim he was carsick when the limo turned into the gate of a private airfield. His fingers tightened around the phone in his pocket as he tried to spell out a coherent message. Trying both to distract from the activity of his busy hands and obtain information, he asked, "Are we going somewhere by plane? Because I didn't pack any clothes and I have a class to teach on Monday."

La Grenouille chortled. "Oh, no, no, no, Professor. You have nothing to worry about. I merely thought we would all go for a pleasant ride in my new airship."

He pointed out the window and Tony turned and saw a massive silver dirigible, with a giant winking frog emblazoned on the side. Jeanne laughed loudly. "Oh, Papa, how charming! Maybe we can fly over the house Tony's so reluctant to buy for me!"

"Anything for you, my dear," her father replied, following her out of the car as it stopped alongside the blimp.

Tony stepped out of the limo last, wondering if he should ask if they were going to the Super Bowl.


	2. Chapter 2

McGee gripped his steering wheel tightly, slowing down to a crawl at every corner. Ziva had insisted on putting the top of his Boxster down and now she was kneeling on her seat, using her freshly opened bottle of rum to wave at people. He had tried to trick her into getting a bottle of non-alcoholic mixer at the liquor store, but she had made a scene, sitting on the floor and refusing to move until he agreed to let her have the bottle of spiced rum. She'd gone wild when she'd seen the pirate on the label.

It had certainly put her in a better mood. She gripped the top of the windshield and pointed with her bottle as she stood. "Look, sailors! Argh, let's pick them up and show them a good time, matey! Any port in a storm, boys!"

McGee made a grab for her belt and tugged her down into her seat, increasing his speed through the Navy Yard. She had refused point blank to go back to her own apartment. Unable to think of what else to do, he'd opted to drive to the office and either leave her at her desk or try to pawn her off on Tony or Gibbs. It wasn't that he didn't want to help her – it was just that she was scary enough when she was sober and he was hoping to have some children someday. There was no need to take unnecessary risks when more capable and less likely to reproduce stand-ins were so readily available.

He dragged her through the parking lot and into the lobby of the building, shoving her into the elevator, where she pressed all the buttons, including the emergency call that got a very annoyed operator on the line. "What?"

"Sorry, wrong button," he answered, trying to lean over Ziva, who was carefully inspecting the console.

"Don't do it again, you punk kids," the angry voice replied.

"No wonder you're mad in there." Ziva poked the panel with the butt of her gun, from which McGee had removed the clip while she'd been chatting with Captain Morgan. "Timmy, we should let the little person inside there out!" Rather than arguing the point, he distracted her by pretending to steal her nose. She responded with a yelp that sounded very loud in the small compartment. "No! Give it back! Bad Timmy! Bad!"

He touched her face, 'returning' the purloined nose. "Stop calling me Timmy."

"You're right!" She touched her nose fondly before smacking herself in the forehead as they stepped out of the elevator, which had finally stopped at their floor. "Everyone will know your secret identity if you don't have a codename. Every sidekick should have a codename. We need something that's tough and reflects your duties."

His mind was flooded with visions of capes, tights, and underwear as outerwear. "I'm not your sidekick."

"Not with an attitude like that, Chauffeur Hound. Now let's get you into your costume." She disappeared into the hole under her desk with her bottle.

He didn't bother to ask questions as he sat and powered up his computer, picking up his phone to track down Gibbs and Tony.

* * *

Jenny replaced the DVD she had just finished watching in its case on the shelf, satisfied that she had learned all she could from the footage. She wanted to reconfirm some other information, but the file appeared to be missing. She sat at her desk and pressed her call button. "Cynthia, have you seen the film of La Grenouille in New York? I can't seem to find it."

"Ma'am, I already told you that Amazon is backordered and your new DVD of _Muppets Take Manhattan_ won't be arriving until Monday. You should have been more careful with the last disc and not scratched it."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Cynthia."

"We can discuss this later. I'm on a very important phone call with the SecNav's secretary at the moment and she's got the dirt on his latest affair. Why don't you go back to watching your frog movies?"

"Maybe I will," Jenny replied snippily, taking her finger off the button. She stood to inspect her collection of surveillance tapes and was trying to decide between one regarding piracy and another about a possible alien conspiracy when her cell phone burst out into a brief snippet of song with an incoming text message. She let the reminder that 'Jeremiah was a bullfrog' play again before looking at the screen.

_frngblimp helq_

The message was from Tony. She read it three times before climbing onto her conference table to do a little jig, disordering her carefully organized research regarding the possible location of La Grenouille's undersea lair – reportedly on a bump on a log in a hole in the bottom of the sea.

* * *

Tony stood on the hot tarmac, listening to La Grenouille enumerate the vital statistics of his blimp. "It has a maximum speed of…" 

He tuned the older man out, dragging his feet listlessly as he followed behind Jeanne, who was walking arm in arm with her father around the outside of the large airship. The thought of riding in a blimp didn't fill him with the exhilaration he'd hoped for, playing undercover operative. In fact, aside from the fact that he was kind of being paid to have sex, nothing about his mission was what he'd expected. There were no black-tie galas, no secret gadgets, no firefights with magic bullets that never hit him – just endless demands for his time and attention that had driven him to seek Jenny's aid on more than one occasion. She had consistently refused to allow him to scrap the mission or even unburden himself to the team. She didn't have to deal with Jeanne Benoit, he reminded himself resentfully. Or the accusing stares and endless questions from his teammates.

As if on cue, his everyday cell phone vibrated in his pocket. McGee had called several times before he'd sent the SOS to Jenny, but if someone were calling now, it was most likely about his cryptic message. He checked the caller ID – Ziva. There was a chance that Jenny was occupied with organizing the frognapping op and she was calling to tell him backup was on the way. Of course even if she weren't, a conversation with Ziva would probably be more stimulating than learning the metric tonnage of the blimp. He answered tentatively, "Yeah?"

Her voice was excited and just a little bit slurred. "Don't talk, just listen. It's like one of those old radio shows!"

In spite of himself and the circumstances, Tony obeyed her instructions, barely suppressing a crippling fit of laughter.

* * *

Gibbs checked his watch. "Is this line moving at all?"

Abby pouted at him. "Do you suddenly not enjoy spending time with me?"

"No, Abs, it's not that. Sorry. It's just that I could really use some coffee and I'm not in a very patient mood right now."

"Right, like you usually are. Anyway, you really should come to the Plastic Death concert with me next week. I won't go so far as to say you'll really like it, but I think it'll really help you get to know the essence of Abby. Ooh, my friend Scrunchie is gonna be there!"

"Scrunchie?"

"Yeah, he's tattoo artist who builds tiny models of the nicest futons he's ever seen in his spare time. I think you'll like him."


	3. Chapter 3

McGee quietly worked at his computer, glad that Ziva had yet to emerge from her burrow. The only evidence that she was even present was an odd two-voiced conversation and the occasional giggle. From what he could make out, she had cast her stapler as Tony and a pad of Post-it notes as herself and the two were either arguing doing something he didn't want to think about.

Glad for something else to concentrate on, he looked up from his computer as two noisy people walked through the squad room. He was surprised to see that a sobbing Jimmy Palmer was trailing Agent Lee. He tried to take her hand, saying, "But all that time in the utility closet! And in the van! I thought what we had was special!"

"Jimmy, it's nothing personal. It's just that Ducky? He's a man. And after spending last night with him, I'm afraid I realize that you're still a boy."

"But I was at the bar with you! Are you trying to tell me you found that out in the five minutes I was actually going to the bathroom?"

"No, during the magical night at the Motel 6 we shared after leaving the bar. We put Officer David in a cab and walked to the closest place with beds and privacy."

"Motel 6?"

"Yes, Jimmy. Some women prefer lumpy mattresses to autopsy tables. Dr. Mallard has enough class to realize that."

They vanished into the stairwell before McGee could be scarred any further by their conversation. The alternately high voice/low voice one that became audible again wasn't much better. "But Tony, what about your awful girlfriend…She's horrible and I hate her. I want you, Ziva…Oh, Tony…Mmmm, Ziva…Let's do it on Gibbs' desk…Yeah, that would be hot…"

"Agent McGee!" The Director's urgent call from the catwalk summoned his attention away from the invisible stapler/Post-it scene.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Where's Gibbs?"

"No idea. He's not answering his phone."

Shepard descended the stairs rapidly. "What about Ziva?"

At the sound of her name, she popped out from under her desk, snapping her cell phone closed. "Here I am! Boo!"

"Yes, good. Well, this will have to do. Let's get going people!"

McGee rushed to clip his holster to his belt. "Going where?"

"Ranidae Airfield," the Director replied as if the answer should have been obvious. At McGee's blank stare, she continued, "To arrest La Grenouille? To rescue Tony?"

"He didn't mention anything about needing rescuing when I talked to him a minute ago," Ziva said, cradling her bottle in the crook of her elbow and twirling her gun around her finger.

McGee was momentarily distracted by a new concern. "Where did you get another clip for that?"

"You think I only carry four?" She took a long swig from her bottle.

"I only took one!"

"Yeah, and that leaves me with…gimme a second to find my calculator…"

"There's no time, Officer David," the Director interrupted. "We have to catch them before the blimp leaves!"

"Blimp?" McGee asked in disbelief.

"Stop wasting time with stupid questions, Agent McGee! Are you still a probie?"

He was prevented from answering as Ziva shouted gleefully, "No, he's Chauffer Hound!"

The Director nodded. "Okay, bring the car around, Chauffer Hound. We'll meet you at the front door."

McGee didn't bother to argue as he retrieved a set of keys and escaped into the elevator while Ziva and the Director toasted to the success of the mission, with the Director using a pencil holder as a glass. He dialed a familiar number, tapping his foot impatiently as Gibbs' phone went straight to voicemail again.

* * *

Gibbs tapped his foot impatiently, wondering if it would be considered bad form to pull his weapon and start making threats. "They must have gotten all new help behind the counter. Do you recognize any of these people?"

Abby shook her head. "Gibbs, I don't usually come down here myself. I have a wonderful man who brings me drinks! Y'know, if you ever get tired of NCIS, you could put on a pair of stilettos and get a job as a cocktail waitress in Vegas."

"Maybe when I retire."

"You're not doing that again, are you?"

"Depends on how long it takes to get my coffee. I may be too old to stay on as a field agent by the time we get out of here."

* * *

Tony entered the surprisingly spacious rear cabin of the blimp, still ignoring La Grenouille's boastful speech, which had transformed into a rant about how blimps had gotten a bad rap after the Hindenburg explosion and modern helium airships couldn't be counted in the same class and… Tony sat on a bench along the wall, watching Jeanne's mindless smile as she listened with rapt attention to her father.

He reached into his pocket to see if he had missed a call; Ziva hadn't given him any information about the imminent arrival of backup, just what he suspected was a drunken fantasy regarding the two of them and a late night romp in the squad room. It sounded like fun – undoubtedly more fun than his current situation.

La Grenouille was offering Jeanne a seat and instructing her on the proper linkage of her seatbelt. Tony rolled his eyes. The price of admission to and graduation from med school was apparently equivalent to years of hard work and natural intelligence or a laboratory-sized contribution from daddy. Tony was almost sure that Jeanne's desire to be a doctor was a combination of liking the title and wanting to wear pink scrubs all the time.

She giggled as the seatbelt locked with a loud clank. "Precious cargo, right, Papa?"

"Of course, my dear."

Tony contemplated asking for an airsickness bag even though they had yet to lift off.


	4. Chapter 4

McGee gritted his teeth as he maintained both his silence and the speed limit. Ziva and the Director had both opted to sit in the back seat and were spending the ride to the airfield ordering him to speed up and passing the rapidly emptying bottle of rum back and forth. The Director had also tried to teach Ziva a song about a little green frog that McGee remembered from his youth, but she hadn't been able to remember the words. It was best that they were distracted; they both kept referring to him as 'Chauffer Hound' whenever they spoke to him.

He wished he had someone to turn to, but Gibbs had remained unreachable and he had no idea who else could save him. He'd spotted Ducky and Agent Lee sneaking off in one of the company cars, Abby wasn't any more available than Gibbs and everyone else in the agency was busy welding in the garage. He was stuck following the Director on a mission to save Tony, who was apparently on a blimp with La Grenouille. McGee had stopped trying to get more details after the second wet willy she'd administered.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror when the sounds of the highway invaded the car. "Ziva! Put that window up! No, don't throw that!"

"Bye, pirate!"

He winced as the bottle shattered on the road and disappeared beneath a Mack truck, thankful that there were no policemen in the area. He could take small comfort in the fact that the liquor was now gone. The Director smashed his hopes into more shards than the discarded Captain Morgan's bottle as she reached into the bag she'd brought with her. "I was saving this brandy for after we caught La Grenouille, but…"

Ziva clapped her hands in delight. "I don't care what Cynthia says. You're the best Director ever!"

McGee calmly took the exit indicated by the GPS system, doing his best to ignore the jeers from the back seat as he slowed and used his turn signal.

* * *

A voice crackled over the intercom of the blimp, "Sir, we seem to have a small problem."

Tony watched La Grenouille pressed a small red button and ask, "Will it affect our flight?"

"Not exactly, sir, but I think…"

"You are the pilot. Stay in your little space up there and do your job flying my airship." He flipped a switch to shut off the intercom, rose and walked to one of the wide windows of the blimp. He swept his arm through the air to indicate the panoramic view. "So, Mr. DiNozzo, what do you think?"

"Of your blimp? It's nice," Tony replied, keeping his seat.

Jeanne joined her father by the window. "Papa, you silly. Tony's last name is DiNardo, not DiNozzo."

Tony looked out the window over his shoulder and realized they were probably too high for him to jump, which was his first instinct based on the way La Grenouille was now looking at him. The Frenchman sat down, crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. "Strange how he did not correct me."

"He was just being polite. It's not like you won't know his name by the time we're married and I change my name to Dr. Benoit-DiNardo. And the kids will just be DiNardo, because I think it's confusing for kids to have two last names."

"Darling, why don't you do a little light reading?" he suggested, handing her a file folder. "But, regardless, she brings up an excellent point, Tony. Would you have carried this charade through to a wedding and children? Or would you have simply disappeared and broken her heart once your Director Shepard had arrested me?"

Tony glanced at Jeanne, who was staring openmouthed at a file folder she was reading. He could only imagine what kind of information it contained. He decided to play it cool. "Well, you obviously know who I really am. How did you find out?"

"You think I don't do thorough background checks on every man my daughter dates? I'm not sure which is more humorous, that you thought a false driver's license would be enough to fool me, with the resources of an international arms cartel at my disposal, or that you actually put up with my daughter's overbearing neediness for more than a month. As far as I can tell, you aren't a doormat like the last cop she wanted to marry."

"It hasn't been all bad," Tony answered honestly. "We've had some good times."

"Between the sheets? Tell me, was she better than your partner?"

Tony blinked, remembering the telephone conversation he'd had not long before. "Ziva?"

"Yes. You slept with her, did you not?"

"Not yet…I mean, no. No I did not."

"I see. Well, her father and I are old fraternity brothers and college roommates. Director David – ah, that still sounds strange to me. We always called him Sprocket in college because he…well, the reason isn't important. Anyhow, Sprocket doesn't like my line of work, but then I'm not fond of his either. We try to avoid each other professionally. I did remember he mentioned his little girl was working at NCIS at our last reunion, so when I found out who you were I asked him about you." He produced another file folder, which he handed to Tony. "Aside from confirming that he knew who you were, those photos were all he gave me. He doesn't like you."

"He doesn't know me," Tony muttered, flipping through several photos of himself and Ziva at the door of her apartment that looked like they'd been taken the previous summer. He hadn't gotten lucky, but he had exposed her to the essential classics of American cinema while dining on pizza and popcorn and swilling beer. Other than the lack of sex, it had been his ideal relationship.

Thinking of relationships reminded him that his current one was probably about to go crashing to the ground below, possibly accompanied by his screaming soon-to-be corpse. Jeanne had finally finished reading the file and was now looking at him with teary eyes. "Tony? Is this all true?"

"Uh, well I don't know exactly what you were reading, but, yes. I am an agent with NCIS and my last name is DiNozzo. I've been lying to you since we met in order to get to your father." At her devastated face, he continued quickly, "I never meant to hurt you! I really care about you and I didn't…" he stopped as she burst into loud sobs.

"All it said in the file was that wrestling isn't real! But you've been lying to me about everything all this time?"

Tony shrugged helplessly and La Grenouille exhaled loudly, giving him an empathetic look. "I thought that would be less traumatic than the truth about Santa Claus."


	5. Chapter 5

"Whooooooooooooooooooo!"

McGee struggled to run after the blimp as Ziva swung from the mooring line of the bloated, slow moving vehicle. They had arrived at the airfield just as it had been lifting off and she had managed to climb the tower and seize the line. She was now swinging back and forth in midair as the aircraft made its way slowly in the direction of the city. She had clearly enjoyed the Moussad training in death-defying feats a little too much.

"We're not going to be able to catch them on foot," he said, jogging back up to where the Director was standing, waiting for him. "It's slow, but it's still faster than we can run."

"Goddamn it!!" the Director shouted, throwing her hands in the air.

"They aren't moving that quickly," he reasoned. "If they stay over populated areas, we shouldn't have a problem following them in the car. We should probably call in some air support anyway. Can we get a helicopter on them?"

"Of course we can, Chauffer Hound! We're the damn Navy!" Her arms flailed wildly. "But that's not gonna bring my brandy back!"

McGee grabbed the Director's arm and dragged her away from the broken bottle on the tarmac, back toward the car to begin a pursuit of the blimp. He mumbled to himself, "Gibbs must have known what was going to happen and shut his phone off."

* * *

Gibbs took a deep breath as the last person ahead of him stepped to the side. He approached the counter in the coffee shop, telling himself not to shout. "I need one Caf-Pow and one large coffee."

The clerk gave him a bright grin. "Yes, sir. Would you like to try a maple cinnamon scone today?"

"No. Just the drinks."

"Okay. Would you like us to steam the milk or cream for your coffee?"

"No milk, no cream. Black."

"Cane sugar, brown sugar, Splenda, Equal…"

He rested his hand on the butt of his gun before interrupting, "No sweetener. Take the coffee from the pot. Put it in a cup. Hand me the cup."

The clerk blinked. "Do you want a lid?"

"Yes."

"What about a sleeve made from recycled materials?"

Abby grabbed his elbow and maneuvered around him, putting herself between him and the clerk and holding out a ten-dollar bill. "Okay, lady, you must be new here. Could you just get the man his coffee before he goes into caffeine withdrawal? And don't skimp on the Caf in the Caf-Pow either."

"Yes, ma'am." She changed the bill before calling out the two drinks. "They'll be up on the bar real soon!"

Abby gently guided Gibbs to the small knot of people waiting for their beverages at the other end of the counter. "Finger off the trigger there, Sheriff. If it'll make you feel better, we'll leave rude comments on one of those cards for the box over there."

* * *

Cynthia rested her feet on her desk and leaned back, enjoying her Director-free time. She was nearly caught up on all the gossip she's been neglecting since Shepard had started assigning her more and more strange, humiliating and time consuming tasks. "Fix my bra or you're fired!" had been the nadir, though Cynthia feared things could get even lower if the woman's frog obsession wasn't resolved soon.

Her fellow secretaries – an elite group, known as the Directretaries, serving in high level government positions and meeting on every third Wednesday for coffee and pound cake – all agreed that Cynthia was a saint. Their bosses all had them working the standard cover-ups: affairs, drinking, drugs, cross-dressing. Cynthia's skills were being wasted. What other personal assistant on the Hill had been asked to go to a pet store to purchase a menagerie of animals considered natural predators of frogs? For the moment, no one else in the agency knew about Shepard's private closet, in which she spent hours at night observing the behavior of the various lizards, snakes, birds and a single hedgehog. Of course, the Director was one insane demand away from having her entire "operation" exposed, Muppets and all. Cynthia needed only to make a single phone call to have the powerful gossip tree activated.

She sighed as Mr. Spikes trundled across her desk. She'd gotten into the habit of letting the cute little hedgehog out when the Director disappeared. She absently rolled him a blueberry as she scanned through her Rolodex, looking for the last number in her usual list of phone calls. Just as she found the card for CIA Director Gibson's assistant, Jimmy Palmer trudged into the office. "Um, Cynthia, do we have a staff psychologist?"

"Not on our normal payroll. If you need a professional, Dr. Mallard is the closest thing."

"Well, I can't talk to him." Palmer hung his head sadly and loitered around her desk. "Can I pet your hedgehog?"

Cynthia reached out protectively. "Mr. Spikes doesn't like to be touched by strangers."

"Oh, sorry. Sorry to bother you."

In spite of her eagerness to return to more interesting pursuits, Palmer's awkward gloominess tugged Cynthia's heartstrings, like a puppy in a kennel at the pound. "Is there something I might be able to help you with, Jimmy?"

"No, I don't think so. It's just…no one knows about this, but I've been having this little affair with Agent Lee…"

She interrupted with a laugh, "Don't be silly. _Everybody_ knows about you and Michelle, Jimmy. It's just that no one really cared. Neither of you has ticked off anyone enough to need a reason to use it against you." His increased misery prompted her to add, "But did you guys break up? I can get you some dirt on her very easily. I mean, who knows? Maybe she didn't even go to Harvard!"

"That's nice of you, Cynthia," he sniffled. "I don't know if I want to hurt her, though."

"You could just make her squirm a little. Oh! I have the perfect solution! Wait here." She didn't bother to explain as she scooped up Mr. Spikes and set him on her shoulder, taking very little time to go to the Director's secret pet closet and return with an aquarium. "Here we go! Jimmy, meet WrigglySkins."

"The label says Frog Destroyer #7."

"Yes, and Mr. Spikes' cage is labeled Frog Destroyer #16. Do you want a non-poisonous snake to chase Agent Lee around with or not?"

"Isn't that kind of childish?"

"Any more so than sneaking around the building and pretending no one knows to disinfect the countertops of any room you've just exited?"

"Thanks, Cynthia." Jimmy took the aquarium containing the harmless milk snake, looking more upbeat as he left.

Cynthia placed Mr. Spikes back on her blotter and said, "Another crisis averted. Now, let's find out what Stacy has to say about Director Gibson's new peyote habit."


	6. Chapter 6

Tony winced as Jeanne's kicks landed on his shins. Her shock over learning his real identity hadn't lasted long. He'd managed to grab her wrists when she'd charged him and she'd yet to figure out that she could reach a far more painful target with…

He wasn't sure if the banshee-shriek was hers or his own as stars exploded in front of his eyes. He released her arms and sank to the floor, clutching his throbbing groin and curling into a tight ball. Jeanne continued to rain blows on his head and body, but he focused on persistent protection of his favorite part. Not even the sound of shattering glass and a sudden yet leisurely lurch of the blimp to the right could distract him. Only when Jeanne ceased her attack did he look up.

The door to the pilots' compartment burst open as the bodies of two uniformed men fell into the rear cabin, either unconscious or dead. A familiar form stepped awkwardly over them. 

Tony was the first to speak. "Ziva? Where did you come from?"

"Tel Aviv. Duh."

"No, I meant…" 

"Ooooh. Right. They called me Tarzan, so I hit them." She sat on one of the benches along the wall, giving him a clear view into the cockpit; one of the windows was smashed and some red lights were flashing. Ziva looked nonchalantly around the small space. "Anyone going to offer me a drink?"

La Grenouille sat down across from her. "I am afraid I do not normally offer refreshment to people who come crashing through the windows of my airship and knock my pilots unconscious."

"Don't be absurd. The one on the left is clearly dead." She stood and grabbed the hair of the man in question, yanking his upper body up at an awkward angle. "Look, his head is on all crooked."

"Ah, yes. How foolish of me not to notice. I take it you are Ziva David?" 

"Uh-huh. You must be Mr. The Frog. Nice to finally meet you!"

Tony watched in amazement as the two shook hands amiably and settled down to a pair of cognacs. Jeanne was sitting over him, kicking him distractedly. He moved out of range of her foot, listening as La Grenouille said, "So, Officer David, how is your father?"

"He's okay. Now that I see you in person, I recognize you from some of his college yearbooks. You look older." 

"As does he. I fear, we are both long past our days of attending toga parties and swallowing live goldfish. You know, I was always surprised he involved you in his business. I have never included my little girl in my professional dealings. She wanted to be a doctor like her mother."

"Papa paid for the new Benoit library at the Hoppy place where they learned me good," Jeanne interjected. Tony assumed it was the altitude that was making her sound stupider by the second.

"I believe you mean Johns Hopkins, my darling," La Grenouille corrected. "Oh, Officer David, you must think me terribly rude. May I introduce my daughter? Dr. Jeanne Benoit."

Ziva accepted Jeanne's hand with a smile. "So you're the one who's doing Tony? I've always been curious – is he any good? I mean, I've done some undercover work with him too, but he didn't get quite as deep with me. So…" 

"I don't know," she replied, sparing him a scathing glance. "He's been faking."

Ziva wiped her hand on her pants before returning to her seat and her drink to state matter-of-factly, "Men don't really have the ability to fake." 

"Well, he's been faking the love," Jeanne shouted, bursting into more tears. "If there's no love, what is there? Making? I don't even know what that means!"

"Mm hmm," Ziva responded, nodding her head and giving Tony an eye-roll he was sure only he could see before turning back to La Grenouille. "So, your daughter doesn't know about your business?"

"Papa is a very rich man," Jeanne said with a sniffle. "He doesn't talk about his work with me because I'm not smart about business, just medical-cine."

"Her education cost me a fortune," La Grenouille sighed. "Do you know I pay another doctor to follow her around?"

"My advice buddy!" Jeanne said, finally cheering up a little. "Dr. Dumb Ass is even smarter than me!"

"It's Dr. Dumas, darling. It is a shame I didn't have an over-achiever like you, Officer David."

"Eh, no big deal. Moussad training, really. In all fairness, my accomplishments come mainly via bullets. I'd have shot you by now if not for the wonderful cognac." Ziva finished her drink and held her glass out for more. "Hey, since we're talking, do you know why Jen is so hot under the collar for apprehending you?"

"Jennifer Shepard? I've been trying to figure that out for months! My CIA mole has been totally useless on that topic. The only thing I can think of is a chance meeting quite a few years ago in Paris. We bumped into each other in the bar at the Ritz. She was upset about losing her lover to the gendarmes and I was drunk. I believe upset her even more when I told her I preferred a woman with larger breasts."

"I think she's been to see the plastic surgeon since then, if you know what I mean." 

"Really?" La Grenouille asked, perking up.

"Oh, yeah. She's still wearing the same sweaters she's had since I met her and…let's just say the wool is expanding a little more than it used to."

Tony kept his ears open, eager for more gossip about the Director's penchant for enhancement, but he was disappointed as La Grenouille moved on, "So, all pleasantries aside, are you here to arrest me or just kill me, Officer David?" 

"I have no idea. I was actually just trying to find Tony. He's right there, so I guess my job is done."

"And you don't intend to do anything else?"

"Not unless you intend on saving us from crashing into the river," Ziva replied with a shrug and a nod toward the front windows.

Tony didn't get a chance to look, instead crying out in pain as Jeanne threw herself down on top of him. "Toneeeeey! You have to save meeeeee! I'll forgive you and we can stay together if you save meeeeeee!" 

"Yeah, that makes staying together look really appealing," Ziva scoffed, tossing a fire extinguisher through one of the wide windows, causing the glass to shatter outwards. "Tell, me, Monsieur The Frog, do you and your daughter swim?"

"I do, but I am afraid Jeanne does not. All her life she has had an intense fear of split-ends that keeps her out of both chlorinated pools and saltwater."

Jeanne twittered something about her hair and Tony was thankful for the aid as Ziva pushed her off him, offering him a hand as he stood. He wiped his hand under his nose to clear some of the blood. "Uh, if we're gonna jump, we should do it now."

"You three go," La Grenouille said. "I will try to save my airship."

"But we need to take you into custody!" Tony protested, not wanting to have spent almost a year undercover and have nothing to show for it. "Come with us and we'll put in a good word for you!"

"I think not, Tony. Anyway, you haven't proven very trustworthy."

"But…" 

"Yes, let's all stand around arguing," Ziva interrupted, shoving Tony toward the punched out window. "That should solve everything. Watch the broken glass."

As he braced himself for impact with the water, a scream followed him. "Toneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey! What about our fourteen future children?"

The impact with the water wasn't hard enough to kill him. He wouldn't be able to decide if he regretted that until he found out whether Jeanne survived the doomed blimp's wreck.


	7. Chapter 7

McGee swore loudly as the blimp descended into the Potomac in front of his eyes. Much to his chagrin, he'd had to drive over the speed limit for the majority of the low-speed chase. Although the blimp hadn't been moving fast, it had traveled over some populated areas, requiring him to improvise routes through neighborhoods, parking lots and driveways. The Director had encouraged him with periodic shouts, like, 'My grandmother drives faster than you and she's dead!' and 'Stop letting that fat balloon beat us, you baby!' He was really starting to consider disliking the woman.

The blimp had begun its painfully slow plunge into the river shortly after Ziva had finished her last swing on the mooring line by crashing through one of the front windows on the small cabin. Prior to the crash, he thought he'd seen some shapes that could have been bodies dropping into the water from it before the large airbladder began to collapse on impact.

At the Director's command he stopped on the bridge they were crossing and jumped out of the car, following her as she jaywalked across several lanes of traffic. He hung over the side of the arching structure. "Do you see anyone?"

"I don't have my glasses, Agent McGee. You'll have to be in charge of looking."

"I thought you only wore glasses for reading," he argued, turning to see that she wasn't looking at the river at all, but waving at passing cars. "I wish Gibbs was here."

* * *

Gibbs cleared his throat as the group of people standing at the counter continued to swell. He'd thought his problems would be over when his order had been placed, but his patience, already thinly stretched, was reaching its breaking point.

Abby whispered in his ear, "Don't freak out, Gibbs. If you do something rude or threatening, they could withhold your coffee. Remember, this is the closest coffee shop to NCIS."

He growled deep in his throat, "It's all for the coffee."

"Good mantra, boss man."

"It's only gonna work for so long, Abs."

"Relax, Gibbs. It's not like we've got anything better to do."

* * *

Tony kicked his shoes off, regretting the loss of the expensive Italian loafers as he treaded water in the chilly river. He spun around to watch as La Grenouille's blimp sank beneath the gentle swells of the Potomac, creating a Jacuzzi-like effect on the surface. It was kind of anti-climactic; he'd hoped for some dramatic explosions at least. On the plus side, it seemed like Jeanne was gone. It was an appropriate end; a blimp wreck with the Lincoln Memorial in the background was sure to garner overblown and melodramatic media attention worthy of the late Dr. Benoit herself.

Tony continued to watch as the bubbles became less evident. As far as he could see, no one else was swimming with him. The revelation that he was the only survivor caused a cold wave to sweep over him. La Grenouille, two nameless extras playing pilots, Jeanne, Ziva…another sheet of freezing water cascaded over his head as he shouted, "Ziva!"

The third cold splatter was accompanied by a giggle and he turned just in time for Ziva to splash him in the face. "You made it out!" he cried joyfully, swimming toward her as she continued to splash him. He didn't realize he was hugging her until he began to go under the surface. Releasing her and concentrating on treading, he asked, "Did Jeanne or La Grenouille make it?"

"Well, your horrible girlfriend was sobbing on the floor and her proud papa was comforting her when I jumped, so I'd say, no. She was upset about the orange lifejacket clashing with her outfit, or something. They went down with the blimp." Ziva saluted in the direction of the bubbles still rising around the sunken airbag, wiping a tear from her eye.

Tony looked at her disbelievingly. "Why are you sad?"

"It's a big loss."

"You didn't even know them. And if you had, you'd probably be celebrating."

"It's not that. It's just…that was a hell of a bottle of cognac." She sighed heavily, her gaze drifting upwards. "I'll never forget…Chauffer Hound!"

"Who?"

"There!" He turned and saw McGee as she waved her arm excitedly, high over her head. "He's waving to us from the bridge! Hi, Chauffer Hound! I haven't forgotten about your rug!" She turned her attention back to Tony. "We could play Marco Polo. Or would you rather just swim to shore?"

"Swimming sounds fine. Unless the rescue boats are on the way, I don't see how else we're getting out of this river."

"We're going to need a shower when we get back to NCIS. Now that your fake girlfriend is gone you won't be uncomfortable if I suggest that we just take one to conserve water."

He swam beside her, again disbelieving. "How drunk are you?"

"Very. But we can hold off on sex until I've gotten over my hangover."

"What makes you think I even want to have sex with you?" he inquired, suppressing his elation and hoping she wouldn't renege once her buzz had faded.

"Well, I'm over eighteen and female. Do you have other criteria?"

"You're hot too. That doesn't hurt."

"Excellent. Want to plan for Sunday night? That should give you time to get a wax."

"Wax?"

"For your little hairy butt. So, Sunday?"

"I'm free as long as I don't have to remove any hair that isn't on my face." He gave her his best seductive grin as they continued toward shore.

"We'll discuss it. We've got time."

* * *

McGee folded his arms on his desk and put his head down. After lengthy statements to police, federal agents, politicians and the media, he, Tony, Ziva and the Director had returned to NCIS. The Director had strutted around the building for some time, bragging about the demise of the dangerous arms dealer, while Cynthia, with a hedgehog on her shoulder, had trailed behind her, trying to get her timesheet signed. Tony and Ziva had disappeared for an hour, ostensibly to shower and change, though the security cameras had shown them involved in a game of naked tag that had passed Jimmy Palmer sprawled out in the hall playing with a snake and an agitated Agent Lee sitting in Ducky's lap in the morgue.

Tony and Ziva were now clad in blue jumpsuits, hiding behind Ziva's desk under a blanket and giggling. McGee had no interest in what they or anyone else were doing. He just wanted the day to be over and life to return to normal. He raised his head and began a search of the online yellow pages, looking for a reliable-sounding carpet cleaner.

Gibbs strode into the bullpen, sipping from his coffee cup. "I miss anything?"

The End

* * *

A/n: Thanks to all who read and reviewed. It's been a brief, strange blimp ride. I can't say I didn't find it excessively enjoyable! 


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